Thou Shalt Not Kill
by ezpzlemon
Summary: Itachi really should've been born in a different place, at a different time, as a different man.


A thin cloud of steam puffed up into Mikoto's face as she ironed one of her husband's shirts. The bare redness of the heat forced her head up from her work, which inadvertently led her to find Fugaku standing in the hall outside the room, watching her silently. She couldn't help but wonder how long he'd been there.

"You're home early," she ventured.

He watched her critically for several more long seconds. "Yes, there were fewer complications than expected," he finally replied. She didn't ask for any more details; mission reports were frequently confidential, after all. She didn't ask, so she'd never know for sure.

"Are you hungry? I have some bread in the oven, if you'd like me to do something with that."

"No," he answered. "I'm quite fine." He still stood a ways away from her, seemingly deep in thought and not at all off-put by their distance. She waited patiently for him to continue, feeling there was more to come.

"Mikoto," he started slowly. "Do you want to breastfeed Sasuke?"

She supposed it was her sister who had snitched on her. A lesson to confide in no one, if nothing else. A practice in humiliation.

"I—yes, I had the thought," she admitted.

It was a secret desire of hers, a compulsion that came to her one stifling night after Itachi's birth and was harbored ever since. She'd kept it secret from most, knowing the futility of wanting it. Because as much as the Uchiha clan was a traditionalist bunch—their conservatism only outdone by the Hyūga—they were also obsessively oriented around the growth of power, and there were studies that suggested a new baby formula to be better for brain development than breast milk.

Is it the closeness, she wondered. Is it the softness?

The furrows of Fugaku's face grew deeper; it had not been an easy mission. "You're a mother, after all. It's natural to have these urges. But you'll not act on them," he instructed. "Alright?"

Fugaku had these moments of softness with her as well, when he made the effort to backpedal over a perceived harshness. This was her husband's brand of love: a strange mix of guilt and pseudo-regret that gave tenderness in the afterthought. As always, Mikoto took what she could get.

"Of course. I would never—and have never," she added, knowing that confirmation was what he wanted from the conversation. And Fugaku sent her a thankful smile.

* * *

Unbeknownst to many, the Uchiha coup d'état almost took place during the Kyūbi attack.

It was the perfect opportunity; all of Konoha's forces were focused on the Bijū, and the Uchiha held stations by all the necessary faculties. In the chaos, it would not take much to insert the few key assassinations that'd leave the Uchiha as the dominating force in village politics, assuming that the village survived (which was a sure bet). Fugaku realized this, and although the tides of betrayal had only just begun to stir in his and his clansmen's minds, the sheer convenience of initiating the takeover then—if it was to occur at all—was too much for him to simply ignore.

Under the guise of coordinating a flank assault, he ordered several Uchiha within his access to report beside the Police Headquarters. Every single one of the summoned abandoned their posts immediately, blood loyalty always superseding their Konoha allegiance. Thus began their impromptu meeting: a desperate attempt at organizing their efforts in the span of ten minutes.

What Mikoto didn't understand was why she had to be there. She wasn't even an active ninja, and she had achieved her Jōnin rank only because of Konoha's need to inflate its numbers during the Third Ninja War. Her husband had simply pulled her into the growing array of her clansmen, leaving Itachi and Sasuke to fend for themselves inside their emptying compound.

"They'll be fine," he insisted. "This place is very secure."

She nodded along, unsure but caught up in the gravity of the situation. Mikoto bent down to level her eyes with Itachi's. "Stay here," she told him. "Look after your brother. We'll be back for you if anything goes wrong."

But as she stepped off the porch and took one last glance behind her, she saw something looking back at her. Her firstborn son.

Itachi, clutching little Sasuke in his arms. The concern, the fear, the realization breaking so slow and sweet upon his small face. The understanding. And then—

The ancient, steely look of a mountain, of a landscape, of things whose danger is forgotten but never dissipated, silent but not ghastly, patient but not waiting.

She was a housewife. She did not understand.

But after the Uchiha gave up on the October 10 coup and resumed their prior battle, Mikoto was not at all surprised to find her children unharmed despite the destruction of the entire clan complex.

* * *

Summer days, the raw bulk of which was mollified by an easterly cold front. Mikoto sat outside with her oldest in her lap, braiding his hair and enjoying the unusually temperate weather.

It was Itachi's first month at the Academy, and after a bit of motherly prodding, he had revealed that his class was beginning their exercises in murder. Like most other villages, the Konoha Ninja Program explained, quantified, and tested on the process of homicide before choosing to draft any civilian or clan-bred student. Almost no one, not even the Uchiha clan heir, was guaranteed entry to the program without first killing a few dozen rodents.

"A boy yelled at a girl for crying," he recounted. "He said his dream was to be a great ninja and that we have to be ready to do what we must."

"Oh? And do you agree?" Mikoto questioned lightly.

He shook his head a little from her fingertips. "No one should have to kill, and no one should have to be killed. That's peace," he confessed quietly, as if he'd considered this for a long time. Mikoto found it charming.

"Now, why is it you think that?" she asked with a smile.

"Why is it we have to die?" he responded evenly, not fidgeting but still restless. It was obvious he didn't want to chat inanely with his mother while there were more useful things to be done with his time. But when she had called him over, he obeyed without protest, reciprocating to her bland comments the best he could. Always indulging her kindly. Mikoto wondered numbly at the role-reversal, that the five-year-old boy was the one humoring the twenty-seven-year-old woman.

She relinquished him, but not before answering, "To protect our home and those we love. Our families. Death is necessary to life as a ninja, and everyone must accept this eventually."

"Of course," Itachi replied distractedly as he walked off to the Uchiha training grounds.

Later that evening, Mikoto made an inquiry to the Academy administration about her son's progress. She had hoped to offer a few suggestions on how to deal with his softness, but she was only allowed to see a few examinations of Itachi's work before being shooed off.

"No hesitation," their notes had read. "Efficient, exact. Minimal bloodshed and struggle. Extreme proficiency with kunai, shuriken, senbon, wire, hands. Suggests previous experience."

* * *

And in those early days, she could sometimes sneak up on him while he was reading a book or lost in thought. If he noticed her presence, he'd acknowledge her with a greeting, so the times she went unseen were easily recognized.

He might turn a page. He might yawn. He might wipe his brow. And then it'd be over, and she'd be free to walk away. But in those few, precious seconds...

Though she never questioned her place in the clan and the endowment of the Uchiha bloodline, these rare moments of peace made her wish she had the Sharingan so that she might truly remember them. It was so clear to her, the way the tomoe would spin, the reflections dancing on the corneas, the capture of the image on her retina. Like the sight was already in her grasp, submerged in her flesh, but was blind.

Itachi, sitting on a rock. Itachi, tending to the garden. Itachi, in the midst of the tall river grasses, little body all but swamped in them. Wind blowing, shoulder-length hair fluttering past his face, tangled and black. Long, boyish lashes on heavy eyelids. Focus way off in the distance, unwavering.

Such serious eyes.

This was her son, and seeing him like this disturbed something deep and essential in her. So young, yet so strong. Soft and unyielding. Gentle and painful. Her son.

There were times when she wished to reach out to him—grasp his small hand—and cradle him in her arms. The dormant Sharingan in her eyes squirmed and shivered with the need to see, for her to throw everything away and lunge between him and the fray, make her body move on its own. She wanted to plead with him, to have some effect on him, make him docile and weak and _hers_ , not moved by a solemn, fatalistic resolve down the darkest lanes of self-sacrifice.

But those moments passed too soon, cleanly snipped off when he'd turn and say, "Good morning."

* * *

As the tension mounted between the Leaf and Uchiha, so did the tension in Mikoto's household. Coup meetings took place weekly, where Itachi was expected to report whatever internal affairs his ANBU work exposed. Suspicion, conspiracy, and unspoken threats festering between every deferring bow and respectful acknowledgment: these compromised the relationship of Konoha and the Uchiha, the Uchiha and Itachi, Itachi and Konoha. Even Sasuke had noticed it, trying extra hard in his training to accommodate his father's increasingly stilted behavior.

Mikoto found sleep difficult those days. She sat in her parlor, moonlight from the window falling softly on her pallid shoulders.

A door slid open, and footsteps padded down the adjacent hallway. Thrumming in her chest was some primal instinct of self-preservation, a final vein of willpower that had sustained her throughout her life. Mikoto ran to the front door in time to see her son's back as he stepped onto the porch.

Taking a long inhale, she began to approach him but froze halfway through the movement. Mikoto suddenly felt as though she stood on a cliff, and if she moved from her spot, she would be lost—lost to the abyss or lost to her guilt, she didn't know.

"Itachi..." Mikoto managed as the door closed behind him. He pushed it open again as he turned to face her, and she saw he was decked in his ANBU armor. Addressing him by name in that attire was a punishable offense, but that notion had no room to exist in the hallway's oppressive atmosphere, super-condensed with a sense of anguish. Belatedly, she realized he was waiting for her to continue.

But what could she say? They both had their duties to their clan, and they both withstood them without falter. Itachi, to serve as a spy and kill whoever needed to die, and Mikoto, to bear strong children and surrender them to other interests. She may not have believed as vehemently as her husband in the Uchiha's superiority and Konoha's transgressions, but she did believe in duty, that her and Itachi's sacrifices were necessary.

Mikoto did not regret allowing these things to progress, and if given another chance at life, she would do it all again.

And when it seemed that Itachi realized nothing was coming, she saw it again—that look, that _look_ of his, the shroud of righteousness and suffering and all the burdens of the world, the tempered understanding that made her feel like such a goddamn failure, bearing down on her like mercy upon the wretched and the dawn upon the night. An empyreal certainty that said in each and every moment of each and every day:

 _"I love you."_

A second later, the door closed. Mikoto was alone again, a distant piece of her knowing that Itachi had waited not so he could hear what she would say, but for _her_ to hear what she would say. So that she might have the chance to forgive herself.

* * *

Mikoto sat next to her husband. It was over, she knew. In hindsight, it was obvious which side of their self-engineered conflict would claim Itachi's loyalty. So now he had to kill them all.

"Father, Mother... I—"

"We know, Itachi."

And as she heard his quiet sobbing, and his blade cut into her flesh, it all comes back to her, a gut-wrenching peal that rang out like a death sentence—

 _"—going to take him to the northern war-zone. If he's to be my heir, he needs to mature—"_

 _"—birthday party, at this age? Even if he wanted one, he wouldn't have anyone to invite—"_

 _"—with me and leave them here while the rest are tied up with Kyūbi. They'll be fine; this place is very secure—"_

 _"—doubt that he cares as much about these so-called bullies as you seem to—"_

 _"—needs to show more discipline around the clan elders—"_

 _"—should quit coddling him, Mikoto. He's not a child—"_

 _"—been offered a place in the upcoming Chūnin Exams, so I entered him on his behalf—"_

 _"—spends too much time with Sasuke—"_

 _"—filled out his application for ANBU—"_

 _"—only be a few months, Mikoto. Honestly, I don't know what you're crying about—"_

 _"—but I'm sure he'll be fine—"_

 _"—killed Shisui, and at such a crucial time for the coup—"_

 _"—but I'm sure he'll be fine—"_


End file.
